Backwards In Time
by TheLibrary394
Summary: Steve Rogers is still stuck in the 21st century and still trying to find a way out when he notices a mysterious blue police box on the corner of the street and from that moment on, Steve's life and his relationship with his love, Peggy Carter, is given hope by a man who calls himself The Doctor.
1. The Promise of Time Travel

I know I should be grateful to them for all they've done, I know they preserved my life and everything, I know I should owe them that; but I don't belong here, that's clear as day to any man, this isn't my time, hell, this isn't my world, yet here I am, a man out of time, desperate to go back to where he came from.

That's why, day to day, all I do is wander these streets, this relic of the old days, my days, this place that, like me, doesn't fit in today, as if it's been frozen in time, slotted into a place it doesn't belong and never can. To my right is a small line of cars, old fashioned, ancient, "vintage", that's what they call them here, a reminder of the simpler times. Their beauty is modest, yet elegant and though the colours have been faded with time, what lies within hasn't changed since 1944. Across the road is a book shop, petite and inconspicuous, it saddens me that not many like this exist anymore, people don't have as much of a want for books these days, they're far too busy with other things to sit for a while and travel into another world; what I wouldn't give to do that, for real, just one more time. On the corner of the dated, lonely street is a blue box, a police box I think. Sure, I've seen police telephone boxes before, but never have I seen a blue one.

Now I'm a soldier, a captain, at that, so of course I am trained to be constantly on my guard, seeking out things that aren't right and making sure they're safe and pose no threat to the civilians, so of course I want to go and take a look, make sure it's not full of bombs planted by some enemy force or something like that, but I stop myself because I realise that I'm the one that's out of place, I'm the one that doesn't belong, that isn't right. It is possible that in the seventy years I've been gone they've decided to change the colour of police boxes, is it not?

That's when I see him, the man who doesn't fit in this world just as much as I don't, I can feel it, I can see it in the eyes that he tries to hide as he strolls past me, trying a little too hard to do so appropriately for this place, this time; had I been anyone else I wouldn't have noticed this one man, the slight difference in his features, his body language, the way he walks just a little too fast for a normal American citizen out for his regular morning walk; but I'm not anyone else, I am Steve Rogers, I am ninety years old, I am Captain America.

For these reasons, I know something isn't the way it should be, I feel it in the blood that courses through my ancient veins, therefore I am unable to stop myself from following him, from taking in every miniscule detail about his appearance. He's not too tall or too short so as to stand out in a group of people, but just the right height to blend in among a crowd; he wears a tweed jacket with leather elbow pads, a dark red bow tie accompanied with braces to match and everything about him from the way he holds himself to the shiny black shoes on his feet would scream "different" to the average 21st century person, but not here, not to these 21st century people. Because, you see, we're the same, me and him, we're both so obviously out of place, so clearly lost that in a small town we'd be the centre of everyone's attention, but not here, not in this part of New York City where being different is accepted, is the norm, and so we are able to go unnoticed here, able to walk round making ourselves believe that we belong when in our hearts we know we don't, we never can.

Whilst I'm distracted, pondering the uncanny similarities between me and this complete stranger, I continue to absentmindedly creep amongst the shadows behind him, most of me willing him not to notice me, but part of me hoping he will, because I want an explanation from this man, I want to know who he is and why he is here and what it is about him that made me stop and wonder. So I keep a few paces behind him as we stride along the pavement, cut through alleyways, turn around and retrace our steps back to the street we started on and finally end up on the corner where the mysterious blue box stands, all the while I continue to believe that I have eluded him and have gone unseen.

Then he spins around, "Are you following me? Hmm, you are," he tells me, but it's not a question, it's a statement, he's known I've been following him all along, "Why?" he questions suddenly in a strong English accent which only increases my suspicions, and I am also made aware that this man is, indeed, asking me a direct question to which he does not know the answer and he strikes me as one who doesn't like being kept in the dark, yet, still, it isn't an anger-fuelled demand, more an inquisitive pondering.

So, like the trained soldier I am, I answer truthfully when such questions are put to me, "I don't quite know, sir. I apologise if I unnerved you at all I was just, well, curious I suppose. You don't belong here," I retort and, like his had been, it is not a question.

"I see," he begins in the contemplative manner of one who is trying to solve a rather complex riddle, "how is it that you- no, hmm: _who _areyou_? _Because I don't think you belong here, either."

For a moment I stare at him in amazement, for in all of the time I've been in this age – thanks to the devotion and attention to detail of those at S.H.I.E.L.D – not one single person has even suspected such a thing, so, of course, I'm immediately impressed by his remarkable powers of deduction. Then, as it had done before, the American soldier within me knows that something is not right, that he's avoided giving me any information about himself, deflected the conversation so that I'm the topic instead, "That's not the matter we're discussing here, sir, I want to know who you are, what in God's name you're doing here and why in the world did you lead me here if you knew I was following you?"

"Ah, I see, you're a soldier, aren't you?" he muses aloud, continuing before I can come out of my shocked state long enough to give him a coherent response, "Not much of a fan of guns, myself, nasty things, cause an awful lot of pain and suffering, quite like me, really… Anyway, yes, soldier, but no ordinary soldier, no, you don't seem like the 21st-century-soldier type, there's something about you that's almost familiar. Remind me, where are we again?"

Again, despite my being dumbfounded I can't help but respond, "New York City, America, sir. But, sir, I don't understand, how do you know I am, I mean I was a soldier?"

"First of all, you keep calling me 'sir' which, by the way, I'd rather you didn't do, but that's the obvious mark of a soldier, although, not usually a 21st century one… Also, the way you walk, very soldier-y, but that's not the point, I know I know you from somewhere, any chance you want to help me out? _Who exactly are you_?"

As he explained, I hung on his every word, baffled by this strange man and yet, I want to help him, want to decipher the mystery of who he is and why he seems to think he knows me, so I answer him, trusting a man whose name I don't even know, listing off facts about myself and my life, "My name is Steven Rogers, soldier in the American army, I fought in the second world war on the side of Great Britain, trying to restore peace to Europe. I was a sort of, experiment, at the time we wanted to find a way to create a 'Super Soldier' who would help us to win the war and Professor Erskine chose me for the test-run, he believed that I had… desirable qualities that, coupled with the serum, would make me the perfect soldier. So we tried it, on me, and I became, well, this," I tell him, gesturing to myself, "but it didn't quite work out the way he'd planned; after he'd used the serum on me, he was… killed and since then nobody else has been able to replicate the lost 'Super Soldier Serum' so I remain the only one of my kind. Afterwards, I wasn't exactly sent into battle, I was more of a… well, I helped to rally the troops. A captain, yeah, I guess that's sort of what I was, but then I, kinda, er-"

"You wanted to fight? Knew you were the only one who could retrieve the, er, 'tesseract' was it? But there were complications, you crashed the plane, thought you'd died, woke up in a room designed to lure you into a false sense of security when, in reality, you were here, 70 years out of time, Mr. Steve Rogers: Captain America. Brilliant!" he exclaims with the air of an exuberant man who's just unravelled a puzzled that has confounded him for years, grinning from ear to ear he finishes, "I knew I recognised you, you're a living legend, Steve! I'm The Doctor, by the way, and it's very nice to meet you."

For a few moments it's all I can do not to stand there, open-mouthed, gaping at him in wonder. I just hover there silently, wondering how on earth this man can know such classified information, trying to piece together my own puzzle in my mind, but failing miserably, "How? What? Who are you? A doctor? Do you work for S.H.I.E.L.D? Have they sent you here to check up on me? What…?" I trail off, unable to understand who on earth this man must be to know such information, yet seem as though such thing would be an impossibility for him.

"Like I said, I'm The Doctor and you, my friend, are the stuff of fairy tales," he alludes as though he can't possibly tell me any more than he already has done, a mischievous smirk on his youthful face.

"That still doesn't answer my question, none of them, in fact. What are you doing here?" I ask, desperate, now, for the answers he doesn't seem to want to give me.

"Hmm, can I trust you?" he begins, more contemplating to himself than actually asking me a direct question, I don't even think he saw the answering incline of my head before he continuing his story like a little boy who's mom has caught him doing something naughty, "Well, I would say I don't think you'll believe me, but, given your history, I think you will. I _am_ The Doctor – just The Doctor – and I am a Time Lord, I'm old, much older than you are, older than you can possibly imagine. I travel through time and space in this," he lovingly pats the blue police box I'd noticed earlier, a complacent, far off smile playing on his lips, yet his eyes are sad, lonely "I used to travel with two friends of mine, brilliant people, but they left, had lives of their own to live and I carried on, I always carry on, as a friend of mine once said 'The Doctor and his TARDIS, next stop, everywhere'…. You believe me, don't you? I can tell by the look on your face, and of course the fact that you haven't run away screaming, which I'm not complaining about, by the way, I'd rather you didn't do that, doesn't help, my friend's mum did that once, did not end too well," he chuckles, reminiscing, lost in some distant yet familiar memory.

It isn't until he asks me that I realise I do believe him, every word he says I take as gospel because I trust him and, in any case, what would be the point in lying to someone you've only just met on the street? "You're a strange man, even to me, but a liar? No, that I do not believe you are. So, this box is your… what? Space ship?"

He beams at me, leaning towards me so that only I can hear, "You did hear me, didn't you Steve, Stevie Stevie Steve, Steven, good old Rogers? I can travel in space, yes, of course, but I can also travel in _time,_ did you get that part Mr I-died-in-the-forties-and-woke-up-in-the-21st-century?"

It takes me a while to process what he's saying, what he means by what he's saying… "You mean… you can take me back? Back to Peggy? Could you really…? _Would _you…?"

In answer he turns slightly away from me, slips a hand in his pocket, revealing a small, silver glimmer of hope, slides it cleanly into the lock on the front of the police box and opens the door a crack before slowly, slyly turning his head back to me and saying "Me? Nope, I could never mess with history in such a way, no, not me, no way, sorry," before giving me a swift wink that you'd miss if you blinked and stepping inside his magical machine. Again, he leaves the door slightly open, not so much that it'd be noticeable from afar, but enough to be a subtle invitation to someone who knows it's there.

A minute goes by, possibly two, as I stand there contemplating the idea of seeing Peggy again, my Peggy, fulfilling my promise to her, being with her for the rest of my life and the lure of the mere memory of her voice, scolding me, instructing me not to be late, is too strong, it moves my legs along the pavement, closing the small distance between me and my ticket to the love of my life, taking me inside the thing he calls 'the TARDIS' that appears to have more size on the inside than it eludes to on the outside, spurring me on, "When do we leave?" the impatient question that only now do I realise has been burning within me since I woke up into this nightmare escapes my lips without my consent and hangs there, in the air between me and The Doctor for a little while.

"Whenever you're ready. Where to, then, Cap?" he says, not even feigning reluctance any longer, it's an adventure for him, I see that now, he enjoys this, enjoys the look on people's faces as they step inside his misleading time machine, longs for the happiness that his good-doings will give his companions, wants to make people better, to fix them; I suppose he is a doctor, after all.

It doesn't take me two seconds to process his question, I answer almost immediately, without hesitation - I've always known how I'd answer that question, if ever I was lucky enough to have it put to me, "A week on Saturday after the plane crash, the Stork Club, eight o'clock on the dot, I can't be late," I recite Peggy's words that have stayed with me for over 70 years, clinging to them until the very end.

"Of course, where else would you go?" he smiles an almost adoring smile at me, "You're lucky, you know, to have her, I know it may not seem like it, but you are, to have someone who loves you so much, to be able to love her like she loves you, not many people get that."

"I know, I'm the luckiest man on the god damn planet, I don't deserve her, she's more than I ever could have hoped for," I admit, because it's true, I've never felt good enough for her, I never will.

"What? You're Steve Rogers, you moron! Of course you're good enough for her, do you think she'd want to be with you if you weren't?"

"Tell me, Doctor, do you have a partner? Only then will you understand what I mean when I say I will never be good enough for her, that nobody will," as I say it I see a flicker of something new in his eyes: understanding? Recognition? Hope?

"Steve!" he whines playfully, "Don't be boring, or I might have to drop you off in the 80s and trust me, you're lucky you missed that particular decade, ugh, the discos, the… legwarmers," he dramatizes a shudder, never breaking the smile that stretches his face, he's too giddy to be serious, "Now, if you've finished talking about girls, I have a time machine to fly."

"Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, sir," I automatically recite, my hand even comes up to my head in my familiar salute.

"What did I say about calling me 'sir', Stevie? And definitely no saluting in my TARDIS, thank you very much," he mockingly scolds whilst flitting around his strange machine, flicking switches, twisting buttons, pulling levers.

"Need a hand, there, sir? Sorry, Doctor?" I offer, walking toward him, wondering if there's any way I can help him fly this foreign ship.

"Do you know who you remind me of, Steve? You're like bloody Captain Jack, he was just as soldier-y and 'happy to serve' as you are, I think you'd get along very nicely. Hey, fancy a trip to meet him before I bring you back? No, on second thought, probably a bad idea, you meeting Jack would be a history changer if ever I saw one, you're _exactly_ his type, probably best to keep you two apart, stick to the plan, never know what might happen," he continues to contentedly babble on, running around busily as he does so, but I've stopped listening, his words are finally beginning to register, to make sense.

'I could never mess with history in such a way,'

'a _trip_'

'stick to the plan,'

'before I bring you back,'

'_bring you back'_

What does he mean _back_? Back here? Back to the 21st century? Back to the place I don't belong? Away from my Peggy? Away from any chance of a happy life?

"Cap? Steve? Oi! Captain Steve Rogers! Are you crying? What's wrong?" he asks me, all his playful joking aside, slowly being replaced by worry thick in his voice, he must've noticed my mental absence.

"I, I didn't realise, I mean, I," I can feel the tears now, unconsciously rolling down my face, trying to escape the truth, but I have to know, I can feel my so long dormant anger building up, bubbling beneath the surface, "you're not planning on taking me home, to Peggy, and leaving me there, are you? You're going to take me to see her, give me some time with her, to tell her that we'll never see each other again, and then what? Drag me away from her, force me back into this world that doesn't want me, that _I_ don't want?"

The Doctor seems genuinely hurt as he soaks in my words, my anger, my tone of voice, my tears and says, his voice dripping with anguish and guilt, "I'm so very, very sorry, Steve, I really thought, I thought you knew, I, I just wanted to make you happy, to give you both the chance to see each other one last time, to say goodbye properly, I shouldn't have interfered, you were better off before, I didn't want to, I shouldn't have, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

Time passes – quite how much I can't be sure – but just enough time passes, enough time for me to think, to calm down, to understand why he took me in, why he wants to help me, just how old he really is.

"I forgive you, Doctor, I know you were only trying to do good by me and I'm grateful, really I am. I think, I think I still want to take you up on your offer, I still want you to take me to see her, even if it's only for a little while, if the offer still stands?" I choose my words carefully; I don't want to upset him again, not now that I can see how much pain he's in underneath that easy going, jolly exterior.

"The offer will always stand, Steve, so long as you want it to," he says steadily, looking right at me, speaking slowly and just as carefully as I was, before reverting back to his old self, jumping back to the controls, getting ready to go, "right, do me a favour Steve, see that red lever? Hold that down for me, will you? Don't let go until I tell you to, ok?"

I do as I'm told, grabbing the lever he'd motioned for me to, watching him at work as I do, he twists more switches, presses buttons I hadn't even noticed until then before shouting, "NOW!"

And, just like that, we're flying.

It's not like a plane, not at all, it's like nothing I've ever experienced before; the whoosh in the pit of my stomach as we crash from side to side, the gentle wheezing sound that's background noise to our entire journey, the other constant noises that I can't even put into words; the sound of time travelling by, lives beginning and ending all around us, and then, just like that, it ends.

The Doctor looks at me expectantly, a wry smile playing at the corner of his lips when he sees my bewildered expression, I know I should probably say something, but I can't exactly tell him that I feel sick, or that I'm terrified (and it's not entirely the journey that has caused me to feel that way) so, instead, I settle for "Stark would be impressed."

And he replies with a satisfied grin, "Oh, he was," but before I'm able to ask him what the hell he means, he catches me out, "Later, but for now, I think you have a date to be on, wouldn't want to be late, would you?"

He gestures to the double doors that it feels as though I entered for the first time years ago and I follow his gaze, building my courage, shuffling my feet forward one baby step at a time.

My back's to The Doctor as he softly whispers "Good luck," and my hand finds the handle. I twist it anticlockwise, hearing the lock click as I do so; the sound seems to echo in the anticipating silence as I slowly, gradually pull the door open to my home.


	2. The Ghost of You

For a few moments it's all I can do to stand there, staring at the life that could have been mine – that would have been mine. I don't know how much time passes but for a long time I watch them talking, laughing, her hand on his arm, I'm unable to even take a glance at their faces and, under my breath, I curse my confidence in Howard Stark.

How could he? How could my friend betray me like this? I've only been… gone… a week, haven't I? Or have I? What if The Doctor got it wrong? What if I'm too late? What if I've already lost her?

"DOCTOR!" I shout back into the TARDIS, desperation colouring my tone, part of me hopes we're here at the right time, but the rest of me needs to know that we're at least a few years late, she can't have forgotten me this fast, it's just not fair. Anger soon replaces the desperation in my voice, "Doctor, what? Where- when are we? She's… and he's… why, Doctor? What have you done? Why?"

I'm at a loss as he carefully takes hold of my arms to steady me and I trail off. He looks me right the eye, making sure I have his undivided attention, "Look again, Steve, you're just seeing what you expect to see, what you want to see. You want her to be happy without you, you want it to be ok that you can't stay with her, but take another look, please, take a proper look."

So I do. And this time, I see.

They're not talking, she's trying to convince him of something, something she cares a great deal about, I can tell by the strained look on her beautiful face, the deep sadness in the eyes I've longed to look into for so long. And he's not listening, his mind is made up; his shoulders are set like stone, arms folded tightly across his chest, back straight, worry for my wonderful Peggy etched on his every feature. They aren't laughing in joy or in jest, every now and then she makes little mocking, scoffing sounds in the back of her throat, almost daring him to disagree with her, to continue his argument. Her hand is not caressing his arm in a loving or intimate gesture; she's trying to reassure him of something, of what I'm not quite sure yet. However, it's a purposefully gentle yet borderline aggressive motion, as if she's pushing him away from her, telling him to leave - though trying to do so in as polite a way as possible but still so that she can get what she desires - telling him she'll be ok without him there.

That's when I start to hear the voices.

"Honestly, Stark, I'm perfectly capable of going out alone, for goodness sake, I know what you're thinking but I do not need a chaperone, thank you very much," Peggy Carter tells him, asserting her authority with the use of his surname and her mirroring authoritative tone, a tone that I recognise; there's no force on this earth that can stop Margaret Carter from doing something she wants to do.

"I know you are, ma'am, but I'm afraid I can't let you do that, not in your state, it's-" he begins, trying to mimic her tone and failing dreadfully, before she cuts him off in a rage.

"And what 'state' would that be, Stark? Hmm? Tell me that. Are you meaning the fact that just a week ago I lost the only man I have ever loved but who I promised I would meet in this very place, this very day at this exact time? Is that why you're trying to tell me that I 'shouldn't be alone'? Well, Howard, given the fact that I have spent the last week working my fingers to the bone training and organising soldiers so they can willingly march to their own deaths without being given a second to myself to grieve, I think I might have earned just one night to myself, don't you?"

I can see, now, just how deep her pain runs. I have hurt her in a way that I could not control, but in a way I will never be able to take back. One thing I can do, though, is try.

"Yes, well, I, I suppose you have, I mean, you could use, I mean, I, uh, I, I'd better, I'll go now. But I'm just round the corner if you-"

"Stark!"

"Ok, I'm going. Look I'm gone, I was never even here. Ok, goodbye Peggy."

As she stands there, alone, watching Howard's back to make sure he has actually left the building, the anguish, suffering and grief that only I was able to see in her eyes begins to come to the surface in ripples: first her face drains of its remaining colour; then both arms drop to her sides and just hang there loosely, without purpose; next is her mouth, the corners droop down and the taunting smile is gone and only its ghost remains; finally, a long-awaited tear leaks out from the corner of one of her big, shining eyes and I'm defenceless.

I make it across the room to the darkened, lonely corner where she stands looking at the floor, completely cut off from the rest of humanity, alone in her pain. I reach out to her, I can't stand her being so miserable, it cuts me like a knife, the gut wrenching feeling that I have caused her to feel this way.

With one prolonged movement I bring my hand towards her cheek and wipe the solitary tear away. Her gaze leaves the floor as she brings those perfect eyes to meet mine and from that moment on, we're the only two people in the whole world.

And then she realises. I don't think she has the strength in her to let out a real scream, but a muffled cry escapes her lips as she looks at me, recognition and realisation replacing the pain on every inch of her face. She pulls away, disbelief the next emotion she portrays. She shakes her head and her perfect, nutty brown curls shift on her right shoulder, stirring at the sudden, unnerving movement.

Then she finds her voice, her eyes still locked on mine, unblinkingly, as though if she did so for even a second I'd disappear again, "Steve?" is all she's able to whisper, hope now prominent in her one searching word.

I nod my head, for fear of startling her again, but also because I, too, am unable to speak straight away, "Peggy," there's no question in my voice, just elation, love and contentment.

A deep sigh escapes her mouth and I know that she's exhausted, despairing, distressed and, above all, severely grief-stricken, but with that one sound I know she believes that, by some miracle, I have come back to her, as I promised I would.

She reaches out for me then and closes the distance between us with a single small step; I wrap my arms tightly around her and she nestles her head in my shoulder. Time passes and we just stand like this, locked in our vice-like embrace, both unwilling to let go ever, ever again. Though we must, because everything must come to an end, and I don't think anyone knows that quite as well as we two do.

Eventually, we break apart slightly, still holding each other, just enough so that we can both see each other's faces, drink in one another's very presence. I know that the time has now come for me to explain everything to her; I cannot withhold anything from my Peggy any longer for she has the right to know why her life has been turned upside down.

So I tell her about the ice, about S.H.I.E.L.D and about modern New York, of Howard's genius son and of the mad man with his mad blue police box that magically transported me back to her; the man I now owe my everything to.

And she really listens, alert, now, and hanging on my every word as though her life has never depended on anything more than what I have to say. Finally, I tell her that I can't stay here with her forever, that, eventually, I must return to the 21st century, that my being in her here and now is risky enough as it is, but that I was more than willing to take that chance if it meant I would get to see her again.

"I knew it was far too good to be true," she whispers the sigh and I can't disagree.

"But we have now, we have today," I say and I cling to the truth of this statement because when I let go I'll never get to see her magnificent, smiling face again.

We spend the rest of the evening dancing, talking, laughing and bathing in the warmth of each other's wellbeing and for those few hours it feels as though we could do it, Peggy and I, we could be with one another forever, could grow old together.

Then the time comes when we must part and, for what seems like the millionth time that night, words fail me.

Together, in silence, we wander toward the mysterious blue box that I'd last seen on the corner of an obscure street in 21st century New York, hand in hand. One of the doors creaks open and from it appears The Doctor, a smile greater than the Empire State stretching his face.

"You ready then?" he asks me, as always with the air of a man with more knowledge than I.

"Do I have to be?" I manage to choke out.

"Yes," he says simply, his grin never faltering.

"Then yeah, I guess I am," I say and I turn to Peggy, "Peggy, I-"

The Doctor cuts me off, "Stop wasting time Stevie, you can save your goodbyes for later. Humans," he mutters, chuckling and shaking his head, what only can be described as uncontrollable excitement prominent both in his tone and on his face.

"What do you mean, 'later'? Doctor, I'm leaving _now_ and I'll never see Peggy again, there is no later!" I can't help feeling exasperated, The Doctor has never seemed more alien to me.

"Oh don't be a moron again, Steve! I'm not that heartless, well, to be exact, I'm more… heartful? Hearty? Anyway, I'm less heartless than you are, I have two! But that's not what's important, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, me not being heartless, right, I wouldn't just bring you here to see her for a few hours then just make you say goodbye and leave! No. If you both want to, I'd like to take the two of you somewhere, anywhere, together. Is that what you want, Steve? Peggy? Oh, sorry, hello Peggy, I'm The Doctor, the mad man, a friend of your Steve's, and this beauty is my big blue box, it's lovely to meet you," he beams brighter than the sun in that moment as he watches us take in his words, his offer, the promise of more time together, watches us exchange a hopeful glance and then, "Well? Allons-y? Oh I haven't said that in a while, brilliant! Must be enjoying this more than I thought, anyway, are we off then or what?"

"Peggy?" I ask tentatively as I look at her, measuring her expression and I think her love for me along with her curiosity outweighs her nerves and she steps closer to The Doctor, still holding my hand tightly, "Allons-y then, Doctor," I answer him with an elated grin and we all step inside.

It only takes a few seconds for Peggy to react once we've entered the vessel, "But? It's… it's much smaller on the outside?"

"What? Oh yes, bigger on the ins- what did you say? Smaller on the outside? Well that's new; I think I quite like that, hmm, or do I?" he muses out loud as I try to explain all I know of the TARDIS and its mysteries to Peggy before he continues, "We sorted then? So, where to this time, Cap? Peggy?"

"Er, I'm not sure, I've got all I want. It's up to you, Peg."

"Can we…?" Peggy begins after a while of what seems to be careful consideration.

"No! No way! Not possible, sorry Peggy, as much as I'd love to I just can't mess with time that way, we can't go back, we can't stop it, Steve has to die at that point in time in order for him to come back, to meet me, to come here, to bring you here, blah blah blah, it's all very boring but you have no idea what sort of paradox that would create. I'm sorry, I just can't," he tells her solemnly, seeming to read her mind.

"I know it was a long shot, I just had to check," she sighs as though she's been denied the one thing she wants most in the whole world.

"However, what I can do, if you want, I can take you to the plane, I can give you a few minutes with him, so you can be there at the end, but this Steve," he carefully places a hand on my shoulder as he talks to Peggy as though his words hold incredible importance, "this Steve cannot come with you. If that's what you want to do, you have to do it on your own. I can give you a lift, but that is all I can do. Is that what you want, Peggy?"

"He can't be on his own at the end. I won't have that happen," she tells him simply, tears threatening to spill out of the corners of her eyes.

"If that's where you want to go, then that's where we're going," I'm almost surprised to hear my own voice, though I shouldn't be, I never could deny her anything she wanted, nobody can, and it touches me that, given the choice of anywhere, anytime, ever, she chooses to go to me, to be with me in my final moments, I feel tears of my own creeping down my cheeks and try to wipe them away subtly but with no luck.

"Thank you," she whispers as she wipes my tears away and cups my cheek with her hand.

Peggy places her head on my chest and I hold her securely as The Doctor returns to his controls and we set off.

Again, it only takes a few seconds for the whooshing and the crashing and the shaking to come to a head, and even though I was expecting it, the sudden stop still sends my stomach flying so I grip Peggy that little bit tighter to keep her upright, knowing exactly how she'll be feeling.

To my surprise, instead of complaining or releasing a tiny scream, she calmly repeats my earlier words with the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, "Stark would be impressed."

I beam as The Doctor and I tell her in unison, "Oh, he was."

"I don't…? How? What?" she asks, bewildered.

"Never mind, when you're ready, all you have to do is walk out of those doors there, you have exactly five minutes until it is imperative that I get you out of there and we leave here. Good look, Margaret Carter," The Doctor tells her as I watch the happiness on her face fade into anticipation and uncertainty.

"Thank you, Doctor," she mumbles and with one final glance at me, she's gone.


	3. Peggy

Honestly, I have no idea what's going to happen in the next 5 minutes or, in fact, ever from now on. What I do know, though, is that I'm going to have to be very, very brave and leave behind me my Steve and the man who made all of this possible: The Doctor.

That's what I have to do, so I will do it; I cautiously put one foot in front of the other and step out of the TARDIS as though the very ground I'm stepping on may spontaneously combust. The mad thing is, though, I believe it; I truly believe that we have travelled through time and space because that is what Steve told me and he tells me the truth, partly because he trusts me, but mainly because he's fully aware that I can tell better than anyone when he's lying. So I take a deep breath, shut the big, blue door behind me and open my eyes.

The silence is what hits me first; whenever my mind had unwillingly wandered to this ship where Steve spent his last moment, I've always imagined it to be complete and utter chaos: crashing, banging, unorganized madness. But it's not, all I can hear is my own voice breaking off at the end of a very shaky, crackling line, weeping for Steve to tell me that he's alright.

Then the line cuts out – as I know only too well it would do - and I look up to see Steve's dumbfounded, elated eyes boring into my own.

Frozen in my own heartbreak all I can do is stay as still as I can, worried that if I make any sudden movement he'll attack like an animal caught off guard. Slowly, carefully, in as soothing a voice as I can muster, I swallow hard and whisper my answer to the question I see in his eyes, "It really is me, Steve."

Disbelief soaks his tone as he speaks, "But… it can't be… I was just speaking to you… you can't be here… you're safe. You're far, far away and you are safe, ma'am," then, with more certainty this time, "You can't be here. You _are_ safe, it's just my imagination giving me what I want before I die. That has to be it. You can't be here, ma'am."

I choke back a sob, I have to stay calm for him, I have to convince him of the truth, but it hurts, it hurts so much, "No, Steve, I'm here, really I am, I'm going to stay with you, until the end, I'm going to be here with you," then my voice grows stronger, "You are not alone."

"No, you can't be, I won't let you, you won't die here, Peggy, you can't, it's my imagination, I want you to be with me, so I've made myself believe you are, I'm sorry ma'am, but you're not real," this time he doesn't speak to me, it's as though he's reassuring himself of my safety, giving himself a reason for me to be here; he's rationalizing, as I had tried to make myself do earlier, when the future Steve, my Steve, had returned to me. This is different, though; in his eyes, if I'm real then I must have flown here, boarded this plane and come to see him in mere milliseconds; it's not possible. Whereas, to me, Steve was so real, after everything I've seen, after seeing The Doctor and his TARDIS, I now see the possibility where he can't.

But perhaps he's right, maybe I'm not real, maybe none of this is real, maybe it's all a dream, but what does that matter? I may as well let him believe that I'm just a desperate hallucination there to comfort him at the end, there's no point wasting the precious five minutes that I do have with him explaining how and why I'm here; I may as well spend that time being with him, no matter what he thinks I am, "Even so, does it matter whether I'm real or not? I'm here for a reason, aren't I? Either way, I'm here to stay with you, to be with you."

He takes a moment to process this and the weak smile on his face says that what I've said is true: it doesn't matter, nothing matters anymore. So the next thing he does is walk towards me, take my hand and tell me something that he never had the chance to do before, "Peggy," he begins softly as though the next few words are more important to him than any he's ever said before, like they carry a weight than nothing else can rival, "You are the most amazing person I've ever met, you're not like anyone else: you're so strong, so brave in more ways than I ever thought possible, you have the strength of someone who's seen far more years than you, but the beauty of youth. I don't care if you're real or not, you're here. I only want to be with you for the rest of my life. That's all. I'm just sorry I can't be with you for the rest of yours."

My heart fills with sadness, little does he know these five minutes are all that we have, but they will not be his last, he must continue to live without me as I must exist without him, and it's not fair.

"Steve," my voice catches on my sobs, but I choke them back, I have to stay strong, "Steve I want you to know, I need you to know that I don't, I want you to, to carry on without me. No, don't interrupt, please, I want you to know that you have to keep on living, even though it's without me. You will find someone, you will and when you do I don't want you to feel like you… owe it to me to, to not be with any other woman, because you don't. You deserve better; you deserve someone to love you, even if that can't be me."

For a while Steve stares at me, mouth slightly open, eyebrows lifted slightly, the way they do when he doesn't understand something, but is trying really hard to. He won't though, I know that, Steve Rogers will not understand what I've just said until he wakes in 70 years' time to find that the war is over and I am long dead, and that breaks my heart.

He ponders for a moment, weighing my words, my tone, the seriousness in my eyes and takes care choosing his words, "I won't pretend to understand what you're telling me, I am sure I am about to die, ma'am, and your being here just about proves it, but even if I were to live to the age of 90, I would not forget you, nor would I want to be with anyone else."

"Steve," I begin, exasperated now that, even on his death bed, he continues to disagree with me, "For one minute can you please stop being a gentlemen and promise me that you will get over yourself and move on when I'm gone, because no matter how much I love you or you love me you just need to move on, will you do that for me? Can you do that for me?" I plead, knowing that no matter what he says now he will never forget me, I know that for certain: he wouldn't have travelled through time and space to come back to me if he had.

Then he gives me the expression I've only ever seen him use a few times; the one he used to pull, before the super soldier serum had been given to him, when I made the soldiers do 300 press ups; the one he wears when he forces himself to do something he really doesn't want to do, but knows will benefit him, "Ok, Peggy," he starts begrudgingly, "I will promise you this: if, by some miracle, I survive this," he gestures to the devastation surrounding us, "I will not forget you, but I will come and find you because I know that I could not keep on living knowing that you were somewhere else, with someone else, away from me. I mean, for goodness sake Peggy, you're talking as if you're the one that's dying and not me, which we both know is not true."

That's when I give up, I cannot continue desperately trying to make him understand now, there's really no point, so I just tell him, "No, I'm not the one that's dying, not just yet," and I sit for a while, watching him as he watches me, mentally logging every single detail of his face in his last few moments.

The next thing I know, an almost familiar voice is drifting towards me as though through a veil, telling me that it's time, that I have to leave here, that I have to leave him.

But I can't bear it. I can't bear to say goodbye to him; not here, not now, not when I'm about to see him again, the older version of him, hopefully the version of him who will understand what I've just told him. So, slowly, unwillingly, I pull myself away from him, walk him back to his chair by the plane's controls, position him for landing and drag myself away. All the while he stays calm, walks when I walk, sits when I tell him to, keeps his expression as emotionless and detached as possible, though his glassy eyes say all that needs to be said. He doesn't look back at me as I walk away, possibly because, like me, he can't bear the thought that it's the last time he'll see me, and so as I reach the TARDIS door, I whisper "Goodbye", turn and go back into the magic box, into the arms of the man I love, the man who is so much older than I will ever be, turning my back on his death.

Engines whir and, as before, we crash around, deafened by the noise, but the entire time Steve holds me tighter than he's ever done before and I know: he remembers, now, what I've just told him, he didn't need to watch: he was there, too.


End file.
